


Mountain

by TheGoodDoctor



Series: Green Mountains [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Baby Frodo, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 18:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14478525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: The Company come to Hobbiton to reunite with their burglar and meet his nephew. Baby hobbits are altogether too small and too cute, and Dwalin should not have drunk whiskey - he can't protect them.





	Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> me: [enters bagginshield hell six years late with starbucks]  
> this was inspired by two very good artworks! they can be found here: http://drawingpankake.tumblr.com/post/173173328776/okay-but-what-about-this-drunk-dwarves-meet-baby and here: http://hattedhedgehog.tumblr.com/post/86506026522/headcanon-hobbit-children-are-fascinated-by

Thorin II Oakenshield, of the line of Durin, King Under The Mountain and ruler of the Dwarf Kingdom of Erebor, has been promising to visit the Shire for the last ten years and frankly, Bilbo is getting sick of it.

“I hope he doesn’t make and break trade agreements in this intolerable manner,” the irritable hobbit tells his nephew crossly, brandishing the latest apologetic missive, “for if he does, Laketown and Erebor both shall starve; and then I shall probably be roped into some scheme or other for stealing wheels of cheese from the halls of the Elven King. What’s more, I won’t see hide nor hair of any dwarf for a further decade and all will be for nought anyway. Well, if he does ask, I shan’t do it.”

Frodo, arms folded under his chin on the table and wide eyes tracking Bilbo’s pacing about the kitchen, nods assertively. “Because stealing is bad,” he says.

Bilbo pauses halfway through putting a teapot in a cupboard and swallows his own reasoning of _because the elves don’t even make good cheese, anyway_. “Yes. Exactly. Don’t - don’t steal things. Ahem.” He places the teapot on the shelf and resolutely does not think of the chest of treasure, once buried under a dragon and now buried under a couple of stacks of paper in his study.

Suddenly, a commotion occurs outside. Since this is the Shire, it amounts to an abrupt eruption of chatter and a little bit of trotting about to better spread the gossip, but this is a commotion all the same and both Bagginses turn in confusion towards the window.

“Well,” Bilbo says, and then stops, having said all that he can think to say for a moment.

“May I go and see what it is, Uncle?” Frodo says eagerly, toes wriggling in anticipation of getting away.

Bilbo waves a hand and turns back to his crockery. “I suppose you’d better. I expect a full report, mind,” he calls after his already-departing nephew.

* * *

Frodo closes the door carefully behind him and trots down the path, through the gate and over to the nearest group of gossiping hobbits. “What’s going on, if you don’t mind?” he asks, politely, like he’s been taught.

One of the ladies is Sam’s mother, so he’s sure of an answer. “Mr Bilbo got you scoutin’ for him, has he?” she chuckles, smoothing an errant curl from his forehead as Frodo nods. “Well now, Mrs Cotton says there are travellers in the valley, come from out Bree-way.”

“And there are!” Mrs Cotton says rather sharply. “At _least_ six of ‘em, though it was hard to tell on account of their hair and clothing. What dwarves want with wearing twice as much as they ought and growing beards to match I’m sure I don’t know, but-”

“Dwarves?” Frodo says, eyes wide in astonishment. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” another hobbit says, leaning on his spade and clearly delighting in the young lad’s surprise. “Right dressed up they were too, even for dwarves. All fancy-like.” He leans in conspiratorially and the older women smother indulgent amusement. “Bet if you run down to the road quick-sharp you could catch a glimpse of them. That’d be something to tell Master Baggins and no mistake.”

Frodo nods eagerly, bouncing on his toes. “Thank you! Thank you!” And with that, he turns tail and runs as fast as his little hairy feet can carry him all the way down the hill to the main road to Bree.

* * *

The Company pauses for a moment before entering Hobbiton in the great green growing that shields the road from the sun. Though much reduced for this particular quest, it has proven rather impossible to shake the name and, as such, any gathering containing more than three of the original Company of Thorin Oakenshield becomes The Company in its own right. This particular Company perhaps holds more claim over the title than most, containing six such dwarves: Ori, Bofur, Dwalin and, most importantly, Fili, Kili and Thorin.

The Company has walked far and are perfectly happy to obey their king when he suggests a break to recover before springing themselves once more upon their burglar; though he may have taken them in and fed them last time, Bilbo Baggins has been much changed by their adventure and if he should choose to toss them out by their ears they should much prefer a rest beforehand. Leaving their packs along the treeline, the dwarves take a moment to ease their tired feet; Thorin, Bofur and Dwalin slump against the tree trunks, Ori crosses his legs and doodles in the dust, and Fili and Kili flop unceremoniously onto their backs.

“Graceful princes, aren’t you,” Bofur says dryly, nudging them with his boot. Kili blows a raspberry at the sky and the others chuckle.

“Are you sure Master Baggins will have us so unexpectedly?” Ori says nervously.

“Master Baggins has been sending me increasingly cross letters about our _not_ coming to visit; it would be odd of him to turn us away now,” Thorin says calmly, chewing the stem of his pipe.

“I think he might have liked to expect us, though,” Fili notes, flailing an arm at the canopy above in a poor attempt at emphasising his point.

Thorin chews his pipe a bit more and lets out a puff of smoke with a “humph.”

Dwalin snorts. “Our Master Hobbit shall not like this at all, then.”

Thorin opens his mouth to object, but Bofur suddenly sits up, staring into the opposite treeline in astonishment. “Great Mahal in the halls of my ancestors!” he exclaims.

“What?” Kili says, sitting up and looking about him. Fili rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up onto his elbows.

“They’re even smaller than I remembered,” Bofur says softly, with vague horror.

The other dwarves look in confusion at each other, and then follow Bofur’s eyeline to where, peering out from behind an oak, is a tiny hobbit with a mop of dark curls and enormous blue eyes staring back at them.

“Perhaps this one is an exception,” Ori says hopefully. “Or a child?”

Kili grins at the little hobbit. “Hello there. C’mere - it’s alright. I’m Kili, what’s your name?”

The boy steps out from behind the tree and trots across the road to stand before Kili. “I’m Frodo. Are you dwarves?”

Kili nods. “Yup. This is my brother, Fili, and that’s Ori, Dwalin, Bofur and my uncle, Thorin.”

Frodo tilts his head to one side. “Thorin like the king?”

“Exactly like,” Fili says with a smile as Thorin rolls his eyes. “You must be a hobbit, Master Frodo.”

He nods, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Are you going to Hobbiton?”

“That we are, little lad,” Bofur says. “Will you show us the way?”

Frodo beams at the responsibility, chest puffing out proudly. “Yes! It’s not hard, though; that’s why I’m allowed to go out on my own, even though I’m only young. Merry isn’t, because he was back after dark - he _said_ he got lost, but he was stealing carrots, really.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow at Dwalin as they stand and collect their things. “Perhaps Gandalf really was onto something when he suggested a hobbit for a thief.”

“You should have hired one as a navigator; how many times _did_ you get lost in the Shire, again?” Dwalin returns. Thorin punches him none too gently in the ribs and, grinning to himself, stomps away from his laughing friend.

When he rejoins the rest of the Company, Kili turns to him with a grin. “This Master Frodo,” he says, gesturing up to the giggling Hobbit on Fili’s shoulders, “is another Master Baggins, Uncle!”

Thorin raises an eyebrow at the boy. “Are you, now?” he says. “And does he know _our_ Master Baggins?”

“Bilbo’s _my_ uncle,” Frodo says, flopping backwards to hang upside-down against Fili’s back. “He’s told me stories about dwarves, but I’ve never seen any before.”

“And what do you think of us?” Bofur asks, pulling an exaggeratedly heroic pose.

Frodo frowns. “You smell,” he says, scrunching his nose up, then grinning as his new friends howl with laughter and/or object loudly.

Bofur helps the boy sit up again, muttering about the impudence of young hobbits, before winking at Frodo and placing his own hat on the lad’s head. One chubby-fingered hand comes up to stop it sliding immediately over his eyes as Frodo giggles. “Well, you’re one of us now, lad; a true part of The Company. So you’ll be just as bad as us in no time.”

Frodo pulls an impossibly disgusted face around his laughter as the Company enters the bright greenness of Hobbiton. Ori strokes careful fingers over a wall dotted with pink and purple wallflowers and nods shyly at a hobbit who straightens from his flowerbeds to stare, unabashed.

“Tis prettier than I remembered it, and no mistake,” Bofur sighs happily.

Dwalin sniffs. “It’s too green.”

“And you’re too grouchy-” Kili says with a grin.

“-But we put up with it anyway,” Fili finishes.

Thorin is watching the light on the lake in the valley when he feels a gentle tugging on his hair. He slowly turns his head to see Frodo, from his perch on Fili’s broad shoulders, in deep contemplation of the silver bead he has captured in his little fat fingers. “What is that you have there, Master Baggins?” he inquires softly, making no move to disrupt the boy’s examination.

Frodo shrugs. “I don’t know, Mister Thorin. It’s very pretty. What is it?”

“A bead,” Thorin explains. “My people wear them in their hair. This one belonged to my grandfather, and his father before him.”

“What are the carvings?” Frodo tilts his head to either side, trying to decipher the runes.

“My family name: Durin.” The king twists the bead in the boy’s grasp, one blunt fingernail pointing to each rune in turn.

Frodo nods approvingly and lets it go. “I like it. Do you have any, Fili?” So saying, the boy leans forward to better examine his mount’s hair.

“Yes, I - ow.” Frodo discovers the moustache beads easily and takes one in each hand.

“He’s got you by the reins, now,” Bofur chuckles.

Fili glares daggers at him. “Now, now,” Thorin chides mildly. “If you’re good, I’m sure we can find you an apple or a sugar lump.”

Frodo howls with laughter as Fili jogs after his uncle, mindful of the child on his shoulders but still requiring some form of retribution. This mini chase culminates in the party standing before a familiar round green door, waiting on Thorin to make the first move.

“This is uncle’s home,” Frodo says helpfully, after a pause.

Thorin nods distractedly.

“Now you knock, uncle,” Kili adds, ignoring his uncle’s glare.

“Oh, Mahal’s beard,” Dwalin growls eventually, raising the butt of his axe and tapping it against the door over Thorin’s shoulder.

Thorin whips round to glare at him. “What if he doesn’t want to see us?” he hisses.

Dwalin rolls his eyes. “ _You_ brought us here, you daft oaf.”

“Did you find out what-” Bilbo is saying as he opens the door. He looks at the familiar faces - six excited, one frankly alarmed - and blinks rapidly as if expecting them to vanish. “Oh,” he says, when they don’t appear inclined to. His gaze settles on Thorin, and neither appear inclined to look away.

“I met some dwarves, uncle! Like in your stories!” Frodo says happily.

Bilbo drags his eyes away from Thorin long enough to find his nephew and nod rather absently. “Yes, rather like. Indeed. Ah.”

“I am sorry,” Thorin manages eventually. “We are not invited or welcome-”

Bilbo cuts him off by very deliberately crossing his threshold and the small space between them to wrap his arms firmly around Thorin. The king, after a moment of shocked hesitation, manages to cradle the smaller man closer, burying his face with some degree of relief in the hobbit’s curls. “You _were_ invited, you silly dwarf,” Bilbo says, voice muffled by Thorin’s chest. “You may not have been expected, but when you are not expected is when you are most likely to turn up, so I suppose that one is on me. And you are always, always welcome.” Thorin gives him one last squeeze and releases him, eyes bright. The hobbit looks around at the others. “And that goes for the rest of you, too, understand?”

The dwarves nod solemnly. Frodo squirms. “Can we go inside now?” he whines.

The adults laugh. “Yes,” Bilbo says, “I suppose you’d all better.”

* * *

The other residents of the Shire are ready to be truly scandalised - the opportunity doesn’t arise as often as they’d like, so they had better seize it when they can - by Mr Baggins’ sudden disappearance, chasing after the dwarves as he did before. His most gossipy neighbours are not entirely sure which they would prefer; that Bilbo bring Frodo with him on this latest adventure - reckless! wholly unsuitable for a child! - or leave him at home - careless! callous and cold! - but they are adamant that, either way, young master Frodo should not have been entrusted to his care.

Rather unfortunately for these excitement-starved respectable hobbits, Mr Baggins simply put up the dwarves in his own hobbit-hole, fed them well, and laughed with them long into the night. No matter - he would leave early in the morning, surely. But no: dawn sees Bilbo directing the plantation of a new vegetable bed from over the rim of a mug of tea, the youngest dwarf telling young Frodo all manner of tales whilst the others are chivvied and chided until the garden is satisfactory.

That day and the next continue much in this manner, and while it’s not unpleasant to watch some well-built shirtless dwarves sweat over Bilbo’s orchard plans, it doesn’t really provide the kind of gossip that middle-aged respectable hobbit ladies can thoroughly disapprove of.

“Alright, ladies,” Bofur says with a wink from his position, reclining on the front bench and puffing idly on his pipe as the sun sets.

The women nod and flutter with agitated politeness before withdrawing as quickly as they can to stare more secretly.

“I don’t think they like you,” Kili says, without much sympathy.

Bofur shrugs unconcernedly. “Not all of us are into that whole inter-race thing, y’know,” he says, and ducks Kili’s boot as it sails past his head.

“How is your Tauriel, anyway?” Bilbo asks as he brings out a tray of drinks.

The dwarves groan as the young prince gains a goofy grin, staring into the middle distance like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “You had to ask,” Dwalin says crossly.

“We were doing so well,” Ori moans.

“She’s _wonderful_ ,” Kili says, entirely unaware of his companions, surroundings, or anything that is not happy recollections of his beloved. Bofur pulls his hat over his eyes with a sigh.

“I’m going to send him to Mirkwood as an ambassador,” Thorin says quietly to Bilbo, breath brushing over the back of the hobbit’s neck and making him shiver.

“That’s a good idea,” Bilbo says, turning away from that peculiar and confusing distraction. “Almost kind - you aren’t going soft in your old age, are you?”

Thorin rolls his eyes. “My beard’s not as grey as all that, thank you,” he says, and then shrugs. “It’s better and kinder than smacking him every time he gets like this.”

As if proving his point, Fili reaches out around the little hobbit child in his lap and thumps his brother in the chest. Bilbo snorts at their bickering. “I suppose.” Then he turns a narrowed eye upon the king and asks, before he can stop himself or reason why: “You were never so silly over a little affection, I suppose?”

Thorin ducks his head, staring at his boots. “Not when I was his age, no.”

Bilbo thinks, and then slams his eyes shut, groaning at his own foolishness. “Of course, the desolation - Thorin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Thorin says with a tiny, reassuring smile. “It wasn’t anything to do with that. If my nephew can sustain his idiocy through journeys and dragons and near-death experiences, I dare say I could have managed it. I meant only that I wasn’t then, but have been since.” He stops rather abruptly, as if he’s said more than he’d like in an effort to calm Bilbo.

Bilbo appreciates this, but it doesn’t stop a wicked grin coming to his lips. “Oh? Some Ered Luin girl caught your fancy, did she? The prince in exile, bringing flowers to a commoner’s doorstep and mooning after a merchant’s girl.” The hobbit chuckles at the idea and Thorin bristles uncomfortably.

“I had no idea my courting was so laughable,” he says, prickly and defensive.

Bilbo’s smile turns kinder and he knocks their shoulders together as they watch Fili and Kili wrestle, Frodo yelling encouragement from his new perch on the bench beside Bofur. “I’m sure anyone should be honoured to be courted by you, Thorin Oakenshield. But I’ve laughed at your nephew, and shouldn’t like you to feel left out at all,” he says merrily, eyes laughing as he goes to deliver drinks and break up the scuffle before it can roll onto his dahlias.

As a consequence, he misses Thorin’s relaxation and tiny smile, _anyone should be honoured to be courted by you_ rattling around in his head.

* * *

The May celebrations are this evening and, as the dwarves are stronger than any hobbit and apparently not yet inclined to return to their mountain with or without either or both Bagginses, they are quickly roped into helping.

Tents fly up under Dwalin’s gruff instructions, due to his strength and expertise and the healthy amount of fear most hobbits have of him. Bofur makes dozens of friends, moving the Maypole as often as required with endless good humour until it is placed _just so_ and the hobbit girls deem it suitable, and then trying to dance with them and somehow tangling himself in every single ribbon and a nearby tent rope. Fili and Kili sing loudly, rolling barrels and barrels of cider and ale and old Button’s moonshine to wherever they are needed without complaint, although the content of some of the songs does get them some shocked faces and a clip round the ear from Dwalin. Ori ends up providing decoration advice, just about able to reach high enough to put up bunting where the ladies can’t, and Thorin-

Bilbo looks around, slowly pirouetting as he seeks the king. He may have lost Thorin.

And Frodo.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is going to have a field day.

He picks a direction and marches in it, trying to look for his nephew and guest as subtly as possible and generally give the impression that he knows where he’s going and what he’s doing, thank you very much. By the way that Hamfast and Otho look at each other, grin, and point him towards a gap in the trees leading into an adjacent field, he gathers that he is not altogether successful.

Bilbo nods to them in acknowledgement, sniffs, and strides in that direction as if he had always been intending to do that. Halfway there, little Rosie Cotton shoots out of the hedgerow and grabs his hand, bouncing excitedly. “Mr Bilbo!”

“Miss Rosie,” he replies with a smile, adjusting one of the flowers in her curls. “What’s all this energy for, then?”

“We’ve captured a mountain,” she tells him, awe and enthusiasm mixing in her voice.

Bilbo blinks at her. “Goodness,” he says, entirely at a loss to what she might mean. “Will you show me?”

Rosie nods, tugging his hand and leading them towards the other field. “He was walking about and doing things, which was boring,” she says, unconcerned by Bilbo’s furrowed brows and general air of utter, absolute confusion. “But we got him to stop and now we’ve captured him.”

“Oh,” Bilbo says. “That’s - that’s good.”

They push through the hedge and Rosie lets go of his hand, preferring to run as fast as her chubby little legs will carry her across the field to clamber on top of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain and now, apparently, a mountain in his own right. “See!” Rosie declares happily, planting a flower from her hair in one of Thorin’s braids like an explorer staking her claim.

“Ah, _ghivashel_ ,” Thorin says with a grin, cross-legged in the grass and covered in a small swarm of hobbit children. “I have acquired an army of tiny hobbits.” He spreads his arms to encompass and show off his forces, and immediately gains a little girl hanging from his elbow.

Bilbo laughs as he gently adjusts her grip on him so that she doesn’t hurt herself. “I see that. Really, Thorin, I only left you alone for ten minutes.”

“It’s the natural magnetism and regal bearing of kingship,” the dwarf says seriously as more daisies are woven into his hair and Frodo sits on his head. “People naturally want to follow me.”

Bilbo tries not to laugh for a moment, in case he’s being serious, but then spots the telltale glints of laughter and can’t resist his giggles.

Thorin grins and ruffles the nearest curls he can reach, the child squealing and squirming away from him. “I think I might add hobbit children to my personal guard,” he muses. “You should have seen them when Dwalin attempted to suggest I do some work instead.”

Bilbo shakes his head in amazement. “They have no fear of either of you at all, do they?”

“Grr,” Thorin says, tickling Frodo’s tummy when he lands in his lap. The boy howls with laughter and presses one small hand to Thorin’s face, ineffectually trying to push him away. Thorin looks back up at Bilbo and shakes his head. “I don’t think these little ones truly fear anything.”

“Tell us a story, mountain,” one of the kids demands with practised ease, and Bilbo gathers that much of what Thorin the Mountain has been doing, aside from serving as an impromptu and mobile climbing frame, is telling tall tales.

“Alright,” Thorin rumbles. “Will you have a story about Mr Baggins, here?”

Bilbo rolls his eyes at Thorin’s small smile and the children’s confusion.

“No, it’s an exciting one, I promise. And true,” Thorin says, and this unlikely premise has the kids eager to hear it. “We were journeying in the forest; a deep, dark, terrible forest,” he begins, and Bilbo can’t really help sitting down and allowing the king’s rich, deep voice to wash over him. Rosie Cotton scrambles into the hollow in Bilbo’s lap created by his crossed legs and leans back into his chest. “If we left the path we would never find it again, but the path was old and covered with leaves. One wrong turn, and we wandered, directionless and confused, for hours.”

Thorin stretches out his legs, adjusting Frodo’s position curled against his chest and allowing the other kids to shuffle about, leaning against his sturdy boots or flopping on their stomachs over his legs.

“Bilbo here,” he says with a nod to the hobbit, “climbed a tree for us, that we might turn ourselves around and find the path or a heading. But when he came back down, we dwarves were lost to him. Giant spiders had captured us,” Thorin says, reaching out his arms as far as he can, “even bigger than this. They wrapped us in their webs and hung us up in the trees.” He demonstrates by rolling little Peregrin Took along the floor and abruptly picking him up by his feet, before gently placing him, giggling madly, back on the floor. Merryweather immediately requires equal treatment and Bilbo smiles, a strange and nameless warmth filling his chest, as the king obliges every child’s demand to see the world spin and hang wrong-way-round.

“What then?” Rosie demands, bored of watching her playmates giggle, dizzy, in the grass.

“Mr Baggins brings out his mighty sword, Sting-” Bilbo snorts derisively, and gets Rosie Cotton’s elbow to the chest for his interruption. “-and fights off the evil spiders. He sings songs to tease them, he leaps from branch to branch, and he cuts us dwarves loose so that we can fight off the spiders too.”

Thorin’s storytelling is something to behold; his voice is expressive and smooth, hands spreading and moving to emphasise the tale, miming the odd sweep of a sword or grasp of a spider, and the children (and, if he feels like admitting it, Bilbo) are enraptured. The tale as Thorin tells it ends with the spiders’ ignominious defeat at the hands of the Company and not a whiff of elves, which amuses Bilbo, but admittedly does make for a better and shorter story.

“Children!” Hamfast yells from the hedgerow. “Come and get some food, and let Mr Baggins and Mr Thorin have something to drink.”

Merry and Pippin are off before he’s even finished saying food and though there’s some complaining the other kids aren’t far behind, Frodo running off with Samwise Gamgee and Miss Cotton. Thorin watches them go with a soft smile.

“You don’t have to be their climbing frame, you know,” Bilbo says dryly, ripping up grass idly. “I’m fairly sure you could hold off some small hobbits, even if they have formed a militia.”

Thorin leans back on his hands and looks at Bilbo through half-lidded eyes. “I’d like to think I could, yes.” Bilbo looks a little surprised and Thorin smiles. “Perhaps my beard _is_ grey enough for me to go soft.” He stands and holds a hand out. “Drink?”

Bilbo grabs it, small and soft where the dwarf is large and calloused. Thorin’s always had worker’s hands, and Bilbo’s always sort of liked that and never ever examined why. The king hauls him to his feet with very little effort, and Bilbo tries not to notice that too much - so hard that his mouth is left unattended and says “What did you call me earlier? _Ghivashel_?”

Thorin nods, visibly uncomfortable but maintaining eye contact determinedly.

“What’s it mean?” Bilbo asks, tilting his head to one side.

“It is...a term of - endearment,” Thorin manages. Abruptly he lets go of Bilbo’s hand, and the hobbit mourns its loss briefly, before trying his best not to. “Drink?” he says again, and Bilbo allows him to lead them back into the bustling spring celebrations.

* * *

Bilbo has more fun this spring than he has since he was Frodo’s age and the novelty of charging about a field largely unsupervised with the other village kids had not yet worn off. Bofur plays his pipe and Dwalin his curious dwarven violin; Fili and Kili are in high demand as enthusiastic and charming dance partners, and Ori has long been lost to a possibly endless discussion of mountain and Shire plants and their differences with the Gaffer. Most of the Shire appears to have gotten over its distrust of the dwarves, having seen them to be rowdy and foreign, but largely good-natured and born entertainers, and so Bilbo is, for the most part, forgiven for having brought them all here.

He enjoys the conversation of his hobbit friends, but he thinks perhaps that, despite everything, Thorin standing over his left shoulder is slightly off-putting for them. Grown-up hobbits tend to find him a rather forbidding figure; he is taller and broader and, though he’s long removed his fur coat and regal accessories, Thorin’s remains a noble silhouette.

Unless, apparently, one is a hobbit not yet grown, whereupon all of this becomes simply fascinating. A crowd of children follows the dwarf king wherever he goes and when he stays still they are quite happy to mill around his knees, using him as a base for their games of tag and forty-forty-in, or a hiding place against seekers. Merry and Pippin have discovered several easy routes to his shoulders using his boots and belts to haul themselves unaided to higher perches.

Thorin winces slightly as Pippin scrambles up his back and Bilbo frowns. “Alright? I’m sure I could pry him off.”

“No, it’s-” He winces again as a braid comes under the boy’s knee.

“Pip, come down,” Bilbo says firmly and the boy moans.

“No, no,” Thorin insists. “Wait a moment, _abrith_.” Obligingly, Pip stays still while Thorin tugs his thick mane of hair from under him, twists it easily and secures it in a messy bun. He strokes Pippin’s chubby stomach with two fingers, the other two securing one leg as the boy squirms to stop him squirming right off. “There. As you were, little one.”

He turns his peculiar soft smile upon Bilbo and his mouth goes dry. The smile is one he’s only seen these past few days, filled with a lightness and love Bilbo didn’t think the gruff dwarf had in him, and it’s breathtaking. With the golden light of a spring evening illuminating the angular planes of his face, hair tied back to show off his strong neck, and playing with children with the softest of smiles - Bilbo sighs deeply, and gives in to the knowledge he’s been ignoring: he might be a little bit in love with Thorin Oakenshield.

There is a gentle thud at ankle-height and they both look down to see Frodo hugging Thorin’s leg. “Hullo, _kurkarukê_ ,” Thorin says fondly.

Frodo looks up with big blue eyes, framed by raven-black curls. “Can you stay forever?” he asks sleepily, settling his head against Thorin’s leg.

Thorin runs a hand through the boy’s curls and Bilbo’s cider-mind provides a vision of Frodo running up and down the halls of Erebor, giggling as he is chased by this Thorin, with his soft smile and indulgent care. And Bilbo, watching as he is now, with the daftest sappiest smile the Shire has ever produced.

He mentally adjusts his previous estimate of _a little bit in love_ to _really quite a lot in love_.

Thorin looks up at Bilbo, smiling blue eyes with a hint of something wistful. “I have to go home and run my mountain, _kurkarukê._ Dwalin’s brother, Balin, will be very cross with me if I do not.”

Frodo pouts in that way that makes Bilbo give him anything and everything - by the look on Thorin’s face, the king is experiencing something similar - and tightens his grip on Thorin’s leg. “Then can I come back to your mountain with you?”

Thorin looks at Bilbo almost hopefully, but shutters his expression before Bilbo can respond. “Go and play, _kurkarukê._ ”

Frodo scrunches his nose up in complaint, but runs off anyway. Thorin turns to Bilbo and looks liable to ask him something difficult. “Let’s dance,” Bilbo gasps out, grabbing Thorin’s hand and pulling him toward the music before the king can identify the love that Bilbo is sure can be easily seen in his eyes.

Thorin doesn’t object, though more through surprise than eagerness, Bilbo suspects. They join the other hobbits as Dwalin, Bofur and a few others play and sing, dancing and spinning up and down the field between the tents. Thorin’s hands are large and secure on his own as they gallop, then pass away from each other and come back together like planets orbiting and turning. Bilbo is so caught up in the way Thorin’s eyes never leave his own, the way he catches him easily when they strip the willow, the feeling of Thorin’s arm around his shoulders as they promenade, that the rest of the world could fall away and he very much suspects he would not notice a single thing.

They stop, looking at each other, and the words _I think I love you_ roll to the tip of Bilbo’s tongue when -

There is a rush of applause, and Bilbo suddenly remembers the end of the dance, the musicians, the dancers, and bites back his words. Thorin blinks, as if also recalling himself, and takes Bilbo’s hand, bowing shortly over it. “Excuse me, Master Baggins,” he says, and disappears into the crowd, leaving Bilbo’s fingers tingling and with a deep sense of loss in his chest.

* * *

“Come along with me, love, come along with me!” Fili, Kili and Bofur chorus loudly as Bilbo shepherds his somewhat inebriated party back to the comfort and quiet of Bag End to sleep it all off. “Come for one night and be my wife an-”

“Shh!” Ori says, firmly and not very quietly. “Frodo is sleeping,” he says in response to their confused pause.

“Aww, the little lad is all tuckered out,” Bofur croons, looking at the child asleep in Dwalin’s arms.

Fili gasps. “He’s so cute,” he says, incredulous. “He can’t be real.”

“Can I hold him?” Kili says, already scooping the boy into his own arms. “Oh, Mahal,” he says, gazing down at the boy who offers a wide yawn before settling back into sleep. “I’m going to cry,” he says rather mournfully.

“Alright,” Bilbo says. “That’s - that’s enough. Could you - Dwalin, could you take him back?” he suggests as Kili sniffs.

Dwalin shakes his head, not meeting the hobbit’s eye. “I shouldn’t have drunk whiskey,” he says firmly, if somewhat thickly. “I can’t protect him.”

Bilbo frowns, adjusting Ori’s arm over his shoulders to better haul the young dwarf up the hill. “You’re not crying too, are you?”

“No,” Dwalin says, rubbing his eye crossly.

Bilbo sighs at the heavens, hoping for deliverance. “I should have known Button’s moonshine was a bad idea. Thorin, could you take either Ori or my nephew?”

Thorin scoops Frodo up with the utmost tenderness and Bilbo’s heart contracts ever so slightly in his chest. Then Thorin sets his spare hand squarely between Dwalin’s shoulderblades and shoves, encouraging the dwarf up the hill. Bilbo snorts and Thorin shoots him a small mischievous grin which makes Bilbo skip a breath and almost drop Ori.

They haul themselves up to the hobbit-hole without much further issue, allowing Dwalin, Bofur, Ori, Fili and Kili to drop, fully-clothed and uncaring, into their beds.

“Where do you want this little one?” Thorin says, one blunt finger stroking a dark curl out of Frodo’s eyes.

Bilbo closes his eyes and sways slightly in the face of such a sight. “This way,” he breathes, padding silently down the corridor to Frodo’s little room.

Bilbo pulls back the covers, allowing Thorin to lay the boy down. He brushes his fingers over the boy’s forehead once more, before reaching out to pull up the covers as Bilbo does. Thorin’s large hand covers Bilbo’s own, guiding his hand to lay the blankets over him. Bilbo cannot help but gasp when Thorin squeezes his hand gently and when their eyes meet Thorin appears to make a decision.

“We must speak, Master Baggins,” he rumbles, so softly that Bilbo might think he imagined it, were it not for the piercing blue eyes pinning him in place.

Thorin leads him out to the front bench, looking out over the moonlit lake. A light breeze disturbs its surface, making the silver light dance and ripple. The shine casts a silver glow around Thorin’s profile and Bilbo can’t quite bear to look away.

“I have missed you, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin says eventually, stealing the breath from Bilbo’s lungs. “I have wanted to see you and been unable to get away, and then I have wanted to see you and been too afraid to darken your door.”

“No,” Bilbo manages. “Never darken. Always - always wanted.”

Thorin smiles a little sadly and shrugs. “Perhaps. I was - I was not good to you, those last days on the mountain. I fear we did not part well.” He looks up at the skies and sighs, starlit and silver. “And now I shall part from you once more, and miss both you and your nephew, and be too busy to get away, and miss you both more and more each day.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo says hesitantly, “what are you telling me?”

Thorin turns to him, sadness writ so large across his face that Bilbo blinks. “I am telling you that I wish never to be parted from you, this day till I enter the forges of Mahal. I am telling you that I would play with your nephew and watch him grow. And I am telling you that-” He cuts himself off and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out one long, shuddering breath. “I am telling you,” he continues, careful and slow, “that I do not know how I can, or if you will even have me.”

There is cider coursing through Bilbo’s bloodstream, and he ought really to be asleep, and it’s been such a beautiful, confusing night - and, here, Thorin Oakenshield sits, bathed in moonlight and professing love and sadness.

Bilbo kisses him.

Just a chaste, tender press of lips, but a kiss all the same, and it startles Thorin’s eyes open, blinking in wide-eyed astonishment at Bilbo. The hobbit presses his fingers to his own lips, chasing the tingle, and smiles behind them, surprised at himself and in love with the stunned dwarf before him. “If I will have you-” Bilbo quotes incredulously. “I’m in love with you, you daft oaf.”

Thorin blinks, then riles. “You never said; how was I to know?”

“You never said, either,” Bilbo laughs. “So perhaps we’re both daft.”

He smiles, slowly, and moves Bilbo’s fingers to kiss him, just as soft and tender. “That’s fair,” he murmurs against his lips. Bilbo pulls back, smiling, to look at every inch of this happy, tipsy Thorin. Who then spoils it by frowning. “But - I can hardly spend my life here, and I really can’t get away very often.”

Bilbo shrugs. “So I’ll move to Erebor. I’ve always fancied myself as some kind of royal or another.”

Thorin shakes his head. “I cannot ask that of you. What of Frodo?”

“He wants to move to your mountain, remember?” Bilbo says gently, taking Thorin’s hands in his. “And you might do me the honour of allowing me my choice in this,” he says sharply.

Thorin ducks his head. “Yes. Apologies.”

Bilbo squeezes his fingers. “Forgiven. We can talk more in the morning, if you’d like my sober opinion, but I doubt that it will change much.” Bilbo looks out over the valley, frowning. “I’ve outgrown the Shire, I think, and a good thing too. It’s about time I saw beyond my own garden wall, and long past for Frodo. A good home is what he needs, and I’m not sure I can give it to him alone.”

“May I help, _ghivashel_?” Thorin says softly. He presses a kiss to Bilbo’s knuckles. “Treasure of treasures?”

Bilbo turns back to him with a smile and kisses him gently. “I am counting on it, Thorin Oakenshield.”

**Author's Note:**

> thorin calls bilbo ghivashel, which means treasure of treasure. he calls pippin abrith, which means little cracker. he calls frodo kurkarukê, which means little raven.


End file.
